


Son of the Court

by oceansnocturne



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Dick Grayson is a Talon, I'll add more characters as they come, Tim Drake is an Owl, that's it that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-01-07 05:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansnocturne/pseuds/oceansnocturne
Summary: When Tim Drake was 9, he decoded the mystery of Batman and Robin. When he was 11, his parents handed him a white mask and a plane ticket and sent him off to learn even more mysteries. Ever since then he's been planning and waiting for the perfect moment...until he recognizes the Talon in the Labyrinth and all of his plans turn to dust before his very eyes.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to wait until I had everything written to post this, but I've decided to screw my courage and at least get the prologue up. I'd love to hear your feedback!

He’s done this a thousand times before but this time feels wrong. It’s something familiar now made strange, like walking into a room where all the furniture has been moved ever so slightly _off_. Shirt, pants, shoes, tie. Silk lining sliding over cotton. Cold porcelain against his nose. Tim looks at himself in the mirror just once - pale, pressed, drawn - before taking a deep breath and sliding the comm into his ear. It crackles instantly to life.  
_“Are you sure about this, Red?”_  
He isn’t, but he’s out of options. An Owl stares back at him from the mirror and squares its shoulders. “Yeah, Oracle. I’m sure.”  
A sigh gusts in his ear as he turns to the door.  
Gotham Academy is mostly empty at this time of night. The security guards are well-paid and alert, but they’re all looking for kids trying to sneak out - not for anyone sneaking further in. Tim slips past them with ease and dodges the security cameras, winking red, just as well. He’s had a long time to practice.  
The basement, once he arrives, is cold and brightly lit. He allows himself a single moment of twisting anxiety before shoving it ruthlessly back down. “How’s it looking, Oracle?”  
 _“All good, Theseus. Your path to the Minotaur is clear.”_  
“Ha, ha.”  
It’s hard not to feel grateful for the brief moment of distraction though, especially once the hidden door slides open and the stale, cold air of the Labyrinth washes over him. He tries in vain to keep his heart rate normal. His pulse is thundering in his ears.  
_“Good luck, Red,”_ Barbara whispers.  
Tim steps down into the Labyrinth.


	2. Chapter 1

_For as long as Tim could remember his parents had been more absent than not. Paris, Abu Dabi, London, Istanbul, Athens, Hong Kong. All over the world, digging and digging, and leaving him with an ever-changing rotation of nannies and housekeepers. Most of them only lasted a few months. All of them were ridiculously easy to slip._  
 _He wandered Gotham by day and by night, taking pictures, chasing rumors. He was eight when he first saw Batman, ten when Robin first appeared. He would never forget the first time he heard Robin speak, all twisted vowels and discarded consonants, rough and low and somehow, like a miracle, bringing a smile to Batman’s face._  
 _He would also never forget the moment he knew, staring at Jason Todd from across the Wayne’s ballroom floor as the older boy cracked the same stupid joke that had made Batman smile three weeks prior._  
 _Robin._  
 _But then he turned eleven, and his parents actually came home for his birthday for once, only to hand him a white mask and a plane ticket and ship him off to Paris the next day. He spent four months there in the company of ten other kids in masks whose names he wasn’t supposed to know (but he recognized Karen Schwartz’s lisp, Tommy Dragone’s scarred finger from a losing battle with a vicious Pomerania, Nina Riveira’s bottle-blonde hair). They learned to stay silent (Tim watched), learned to communicate in code (Tim listened), learned to obey without questioning (Tim learned)._  
 _And then Beijing, and more lessons. Then Munich, then DC, then south to São Paulo, and then finally back to Gotham. Tim was away from home for over a year, and when he came back everything and nothing had changed._  
 _Jason Todd was dead. Bruce Wayne was a recluse. And the Grandmaster of the Court of Owls had summoned him to a private audience the night of his return._  
 _Tim was twelve._  
 _He went to the audience unescorted, made his way across a city whose bones and rhythms he had forgotten and would now have to relearn. Fresh-pressed suit, polished mask firmly in place. Hair flat._  
 _Perfect._  
 _Young Owls were to be seen and not heard; his teachers had been very clear on that point. But there Tim was, alone, unprepared and terrified, with no idea what to expect. He tried not to let any of it show on his face and he must have succeeded, at least a little, because the Grandmaster smiled and gave him a gold talon to hang around his neck and told him when the next meaning of the Fifth Court was to be. Tim’s presence would be expected._  
 _And so it began._  
-=-  
The Labyrinth is as cold as it’s ever been. Tim steels himself against the chill. It’s an effort not to wrap his arms around himself, but it’s an effort that he’s used to making.  
He was young and morbidly curious the first time he discovered this place; time and experience have not made it any less eerie. There are few shadows to stick to so mostly Tim walks quickly and trusts Oracle to warn him if anything or anyone is coming. Avoiding the cameras is pointless; the Labyrinth was built to trap and survey, unlike his house, and every angle is designed to be caught on camera. They swivel to follow him as he passes. He’s mostly sure that it’s Oracle controlling them.  
He hopes it’s Oracle.  
“Nearly there,” she murmurs in his ear. “You have the picture?”  
He nods and trusts the cameras will pick it up.  
“Ok. Good luck.”  
The door to the Talon Room is in front of him. It’s as plain as the rest of the place, except for the fact that it’s a door in a construction made entirely otherwise of walls and of the spaces between them. Unobtrusive and out of place. Misplaced furniture.  
Tim bends silently to pick the lock.  
-=-  
_His first year in the Court Tim did everything he could to get Batman’s attention. There wasn't any safe way to do it, not without drawing all the wrong attention, but he did his best. He didn’t want to bring the full weight of the Court once again against the Waynes; they nearly didn’t survive the last time, and he doubted they’d survive now. But Timothy Drake had been known to visit Wayne Manor from time to time, especially when his parents were off travelling. And if anyone asked it was easy enough to say he was maintaining patterns and gathering intel._  
 _Easy._  
 _What was hard was leaving the pictures behind without Alfred noticing – that man had eyes like a hawk._  
 _A clever, over-protective, Owl-killing mother hawk. What would he say if he knew how you spent your nights?_  
 _Nothing good, Tim was sure._  
 _Still, some very incriminating crime-scene photos did manage to make their way between couch cushions and under pillows. Pictures of owl-carved knives and hidden messages left behind by victims who knew too much._  
 _A feather from a barn owl, once, when he was feeling impatient._  
 _Alfred was suspicious, he knew. He saw the looks sent his way when the butler thought Tim wasn’t looking. If only he could get to Bruce…_  
 _But he hardly ever saw Bruce on his visits to Wayne Manor. A heavy pall of grief hung over the house and Bruce was the center of it: the heavy mass of a dying star, bending space and time around him. It was impenetrable. He was impenetrable. After a year Tim stopped visiting altogether. He trusted Alfred to take care of Bruce, and Batman to take care of Gotham._  
 _He’d just have to trust himself to take care of the Court of Owls._


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, time flies when you're agonizing over seven drafts of the same darn chapter...uh. So. There's probably a ton of inconsistencies here but it's my first published fic and I really just want to get this out so...here goes!

It’s a bad plan. Really. It’s a horrible, no-good, cobbled-together patchwork of a plan, and it’s bound to disintegrate the  _ moment  _ it hits any kind of a snag, but it’s all they have.    
It’s all  _ Grayson _ has.    
_ Find Talon. Free Talon. Reach the exit. Get to the Clocktower.  _

The original was much better. But it would still need at least six more years to mature and bear fruit, and none of them have that long. It has to be tonight. It has to be this plan. 

Step one isn’t too hard. He memorized the layout of this place years ago, back when he still thought he might be able to get Batman to help him. All Talons, past and present, are kept in the dead center of the Labyrinth. It’s symbolic, at least to hear the Grandmaster speak of it. Right now it just means a longer path to any given exit. More time to be caught. 

Grayson himself is at the far end of the room, locked away in something that’s a cross between a dog kennel and a birdcage. Tim has to weave through a couple dozen coffins to get to him, and by the time he reaches him his shoulders are tight and Grayson’s eyes are trained on him like...well, like a hawk. Like a Talon. 

“Hi,” Tim says, and immediately feels like an idiot. He clears his throat and tries again. “My name is - oh, right - uh -” He pulls of the mask. Barbara is laughing at him, he’s sure of it. He can’t hear anything over the comm but he just  _ knows _ . “My name is Timothy Drake. You probably don’t remember me but we met a long time ago - here, let me show you -“ he presents the picture as gently as he can. Grayson’s eyes flick down to it, ink on glossy paper, before returning to stare, unblinking, into Tim’s soul. “Uh, it’s...you used to perform with the Circus. With your parents. The Flying Graysons. Your name is...do you remember your name?” 

No response. Tim’s suit is starting to feel too warm and too tight. “Well, your name is Dick Grayson. You were a performer, not a killer. I want to help you escape. Do you...will you come with me?”

He’s not really expecting an answer, honestly. Rough, sloppy plan, and all that. But then Talon - Grayson - actually  _ speaks,  _ and it’s enough of a shock to nearly send him into cardiac arrest. He just barely stops himself from toppling over by leaning against one of the unnaturally white coffins.

“Talon belongs to the Court of Owls.” Grayson’s voice is rough and raspy. Barbara, tellingly, does not laugh at Tim as he braces against cold marble.

_ “Tell him,”  _ she murmurs instead,  _ “that Talon belongs to the Court, but Dick Grayson belongs to the sky.” _

Tim relays the message. Grayson’s posture loosens the slightest bit. Just the slightest. Tim only really notices because he’s looking for it.

_ “And tell him that...tell him that Robins need to be free.” _

It has the feel of a loaded message - and Tim is  _ definitely  _ interrogating her about all of this later - but as soon as Barbara says ‘robin’ Grayson’s eyes widen, and when Tim repeats it he actually bumps his head against the low ceiling of his cage as he attempts to straighten up. 

And then he’s nodding, and Tim’s already got his lockpicks out to work on the padlock, and he still can’t believe this is working even as he crosses the first two items off the list. 

_Find Talon._ _Free Talon._ _Reach the exit. Get to the Clocktower._

The Talon is silent as he exits the cage, but the way his head dips towards Tim feels like a ‘thank you.’ His movements are hesitant and graceful and he keeps glancing down at the mask in Tim’s hand. 

“The downtown Gotham exit,” Tim says, because he’s an idiot too caught up in the memory of a circus night from long ago to think of anything better to say. 

The Talon nods and remains silent as Tim replaces the mask. He lets Tim take the lead, which is its own kind of unnerving. Running through the Labyrinth with a Talon on his heels is the stuff of Tim’s worst nightmares; having his mask back on only makes it worse. It’s a struggle to ignore his prey instincts, to keep his breathing steady and his mind clear. Everything in him wants to dodge down the nearest hallway and try to evade. He forces himself to keep on track mostly by running through the remaining steps of the plan in his mind over and over. He tries picturing the sunshine smile in the photograph too, the feel of chalk-dry hands on his shoulders and the warmth in his chest because someone was actually happy to see  _ him. _

It’s a good memory. It helps. 

He’s still breathing a little too fast, but his mind is (mostly) clear. They’re maybe ten minutes from the exit point that will take them into downtown Gotham - only a nine minute walk to the Clocktower - when a sudden weight on his shoulders sends Tim crashing to the ground. He doesn’t even have a chance to try to break his fall; his face collides with the cold floor like a car into a sixteen wheeler and a loud  _ crunch  _ sends a surge of pain blooming across his face, along with a rush of warm blood. 

_ Crap. _

_ “Red?”  _ Barbara’s voice is level but he can hear the worry. He can’t respond though; if they know he’s working with anyone else - he flails, fights back, and manages to pluck the small tangle of wires and plastic from his ear and close it in his fist just before the other Talon grabs his hair and yanks his head back.  _ Hard _ . 

“Timothy Drake,” it hisses. Tim squeezes his eyes shut reflexively and waits for the end, for  _ the Court of Owls has sentenced you to die. _

...but then he keeps breathing. The Talon holds him, but makes no other move to end his life or to do anything more than to rip out his hair. Close by, he can hear the faint sound of air passing around fists and the clatter of steel against Gotham marble. Someone is attacking Grayson too then, another Talon judging by the silence of the battle. Tim’s brain starts churning. If a Talon’s loose in the Labyrinth it’s one thing. But for two to be free, at the same time, in  _ this  _ part of the maze that’s so far from the Coffin room...the Grandmaster must be involved. And she won’t want her pets killing either of them without -

“Good evening, Mr. Drake.”

-getting in the last word. 

_ I can use this. _

He’s not sure quite how yet, but he can, and his mind is already scrambling for a plan, examining and discarding ideas as quickly as they come. 

Grayson doesn’t stop his fight. Tim catches a nearly inaudible grunt as a blow connects, but he can’t tell who was hit. He hopes it was the other Talon.

The first is still holding his hair and now shifts to pin him to the ground on his stomach until all he can see is white stone. Then the sound of heels on marble, and his much-abused scalp is again wrenched backwards to look up at the approaching Grandmaster. He can barely swallow at this angle. His face is still throbbing.

The Grandmaster looks as poised as ever, draped in black and gold with a large golden talon hanging from her neck on a chain. She plays with it now thoughtfully as she stares down at him and Tim finds that he can’t look away. 

He has an idea. 

“What, no quips? No railing against the cruelty of the Court? I’m disappointed, I was hoping for a show.”

It’s hard to breathe, let alone speak in his position. Tim hopes his expression conveys disdain for him because it’s all that he’s got. 

“Unfortunate. As is your decision, throwing your life away for a single Talon. Why not free them all, Timothy? Surely that big brain of yours could have found a way?” She steps closer. The Talon pulls his head back even further; Tim’s not optimistic of his chances of getting out of this without a snapped spine if this continues. “Mr. al Ghul is always praising it. He’ll be sorely disappointed; he offered quite the benefits package in exchange for your life. We had to refuse of course. The Court takes care of its own, Mr. Drake, as I’m sure you well know.  We’ll even allow you to choose how you’ll die. Which do you think best befits a traitor: beheading, or dismemberment?”

“Go to hell,” he chokes out, because it’s what she expects. Behind his back, angled towards a security camera, he shapes one hand into a shaky 0.  

“Not very original, are you? Hopefully your death will be more entertaining than this. We’ve gathered a full Parliament for your execution.” She reaches behind her skirt and pulls out a syringe. Tim’s stomach twists; he knows exactly what’s in it and it’s an instant wrench in his last-minute backup’s-backup plan. He grits his teeth and shakes his hand a little, hoping Oracle gets the message, hoping she can act on it in time. It’s another terrible plan, but at this point it’s all he has. 

At some unspoken command the Talon behind him grabs Tim’s right wrist and stretches his arm forward; the comm is still safe in his left but it’s not much use now. The Grandmaster moves quickly and stabs him with the needle, much harder than is actually necessary.  _ That’s going to bruise,  _ he thinks, and then  _ not that it matters.  _ His body will be unrecognizable by the time GCPD pulls it out of the harbor, one little bruise won’t -

_ Stop it! _ He can’t think like that, there’s still - 

Cold air begins to spit out of the vents. 

“Thank you,” he breathes, then wrenches his hand out of the startled Talon’s grasp, yanks the gold talon necklace off of its chain, and stabs the Grandmaster in the space between mask and face.

Her hand flies to the wound, a startled yell echoing around the space. “Brat!” she snarls. Tim can’t help but grin in vicious satisfaction. 

“Grayson, RUN!” he shouts; it’s the last thing he manages before a sort of gentle lassitude sweeps through him. The needle is still sticking out of his arm. The Grandmaster’s face is wavering, shifting between a bloody snarl and a blank white mask. And then they merge, blood dripping down the white porcelain as it grows teeth and lunges for his throat. 

He flinches back. He can’t help it. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion though: he falls, the white and red mask blurs and jumps, the walls bleed red. A Talon’s hands close around his arms and he closes his eyes against the horde of owls rustling in the rafters and preparing to dive. 

“Foolish Owlet,” the Talon whispers. And Tim...drifts. Cool air rushes into his face and he closes his eyes for a moment, but when he opens them again Grayson is holding a hand to his ear and Tim’s left hand is dangling open. Tim touches his own ear, not sure why, and finds that his comm is missing. But that’s right, because he took it out. So it should be in his…

“Stay awake,” someone snaps. Tim’s eyes fly open and he tries to roll out of bed but something tightens around his chest instead. 

Something is holding him, ice-cold hands under his knees and back, curling very close to several vital organs. He squirms and the hands tighten even more. “Hold still.” The voice comes from above him. He tries to pry open his eyes to see - when did they close? - but gets one glimpse of a gleaming skull and bloody hair and squeezes them shut again. The wind blows past him and something cold is pressed to the side of his face. 

_ “Red, you idiot, I’m going to kill you.”  _ Barbara sounds like she’s catching her breath. He’s not sure why. 

“Bar...Or’cle,” he murmurs. It’s hard to move his mouth, and his limbs somehow feel both heavy and itchy. It must be a new strain; he doesn’t remember it affecting him like this before. Everywhere Talon is touching him is agony. He groans. 

_ “GRAYSON!”  _ Oh good, it is Grayson that grabbed him. The head above him tilts, listening. Tim stares at the walls oozing blood and wonders if Talons can slip.  _ “HURRY!” _

The icepack against his cheek is actually a hand, which Tim only notices when he feels the nails scrape against his skin. It takes everything in him not to flinch but he can’t, can’t show weakness or -

No, no, it’s not like that. He’s not…he’s in the Labyrinth but it’s not...

They veer sharply left. The Parliament gathers above them, feathers rustling, bloodshot eyes following their every move. 

It has to be the drugs. It has to be. Tim squeezes his eyes shut and hopes this strain sticks to visual hallucinations only. 

If he focuses he can hear the edge of Barbara’s words, now filling Grayson’s ear. Directions, probably. That would make the most sense. 

He thinks of the device in his pocket. Once they get close enough to the entrance - he’ll have to open his eyes to see, but he can do it - he can activate the device and collapse...maybe a third of the Labyrinth. He wasn’t able to get everywhere yet but he wired the Fountain room and the Portrait room last year, and the Talon room today as he was leaving with Grayson. Several hallways and dead ends were set up over the years before that. It won’t be enough to stop them, but it will slow the Court down significantly, especially with the symbolic damage. Showing someone untouchable that they can be touched is a huge mental blow. 

But if the Grandmaster was telling the truth…

Impossible. Tim himself entered the Labyrinth at 4am on a school day. By now it has to be at least 6am, meaning that parents and kids will be getting ready for work and for school. If the Grandmaster was planning on putting on a show in a few hours, she would’ve dosed him with something much less soporific. More likely she intended to hide him away, make him think it had only been a few hours, then send him running when night fell and Court members could get away from other obligations. 

So, no children. No deaths. 

He just has to look…

Easier said than done. It takes far too long to pry his own eyes open, and when he does everything is painted in shades of red and black. He gasps; he can’t help it. Tal-Grayson’s arms tense and the murmur of Barbara’s voice cuts off sharply. 

Suddenly the comm is thrust back near his ear and Oracle is  _ right there. _ Frozen staring at the horde of bloody demons following behind, terrified but locked into place, it’s a relief to hear her voice again. 

_ “Tim,”  _ she says quietly.  _ “It’s ok. It’s not real. I had Grayson grab the syringe so we can get some samples and synthesize an antidote for you. You’re about ten minutes out, ok? I’ll see you very soon. Whatever you’re seeing now isn’t real, remember that.” _

Jack and Janet join the horde, throats slashed, owl-carved knives sticking out of their chests.  _ Your fault!  _ they scream. Tim turns and stares resolutely ahead. “Not real,” he repeats. 

_ “Exactly,”  _ Barbara says. He can imagine the look on her face, warm and approving, and that helps too.  _ “I need to keep giving Grayson directions. You ok?” _

“Yeah.”

_ “Good.”  _

The comm is taken away again. They move quickly through the halls, much faster than Tim ever would have managed even if he weren’t injured and drugged to the gills.  _ Benefits of being a Talon _ he thinks, and then instantly feels terrible. He wonders what Robin would think of him, seeing him now. He can feel the eyes of the invisible - no, imaginary - crowd behind them, boring into his neck, judging him, condemning him. He does his best not to look, though they keep slipping into the corners of his eyes and compelling him to see, to pay attention. The walls continue to stream blood, thicker and thicker, and as the terror grows it’s easy to imagine himself muscle-locked on the floor in some white-walled hallway, staring at nothing and unable to escape. It’s a good thing Grayson is here. 

And this isn’t even a full dose. 

Suddenly the walls around them start to bend and lean. He throws out a hand, certain he’s about to fall, and hits something hard. It hurts. 

They’re so close. He can see the dark arch at the end of the hall. They’ll come up in Gotham, they’ll…

_ Wait. _

It’s the wrong entrance. 

Isn’t it?

“Or’cle?” he calls. His voice comes out too quiet. They’re close to the door though, and it’s now or never...he fumbles and nearly drops the device, pulling it out of his pocket, but by some miracle he manages to input the password and set the code. The walls are still tilting, but now they’re shaking too, and he thinks that part might be real. 

A chunk of marble lands in front of them and Tim startles. Grayson’s grip doesn’t slip, but Tim finds his head dangerously close to the floor as Grayson veers them around the sudden obstacle. 

Tim twists to watch the hallway behind as Grayson darts through the doorway. He ignores the bloody faces of his parents and the other faceless demons and watches marble shake and fall and break apart. 

There weren’t supposed to be an explosives in this hallway. 

“Oracle!” His voice is lost in the grumble of torn stone, though, echoing around the small space of the passageway. 

The very familiar passageway. 

He tries to get Barbara’s attention again, but the drug is fast becoming overwhelming and he can’t catch the thread of his thoughts long enough to talk. He loses time; one blink and they’re at the door, another blink and they’re on the grounds; one more blink and everything is gray, and Batman is leaning over him. 

“Oh,” he whispers. Why aren’t they at the Clocktower? He never wanted to impose on the Waynes. “Sorry, Mr. Wayne.” He closes his eyes to try to blink again but they’re too heavy to open back up. He’s so tired…and they must be safe now, right? He lets the drug sweep over him and falls under the wave of exhaustion. 

-=-

_When Tim was a kid, somewhere between seven and ten, he used to slip past his sleeping nanny and into the city. He imagined himself an explorer, a spy, a warrior. He cut his money-soft hands on rusty fire escapes and tore holes in the knees of pants worth more than the sidewalk he’d fallen on. It was all fun and games, until it wasn’t. It was all exciting, until it wasn’t. Only a few days into his new adventurer’s life, Tim got to meet Batman._

_The memory instantly burned itself into his brain with the dull-edged brand of fear. The smell of fermenting garbage and urine. The press of cold metal against his throat. A cold hand clamped tight around his wrist. Everything cold and wet and miserable._

_The nearly inaudible swish of a cape. The ache in his wrist and the sting in his neck. Batman's gloved hand on his shoulder, asking him if he had a way to get home. The tension in his hand when Tim told him where he lived._

_And the gruff words he never forgot, said to a tired Commissioner later that night while Tim watched from behind a ventilation unit: “Sometimes I think that if everyone just tried a little harder to be good, the world would be a better place. Even Gotham.”_

_After that it became an obsession. He started taking his dad's old camera and following the Batman as best he could. It meant predicting patrol routes and crime patterns, and he did it. He filled an entire notebook with observations and spreadsheets and after a few months he had his own route down. He patrolled and took pictures and developed them in a dark corner of his walk-in closet so that his nannies and babysitters wouldn’t see._

_He watched Batman get thrown into walls, fall from fire escapes, takes knives to places that knives really shouldn’t be. And he saw his neighbor hide knee-braces under nice suits and pain killers with champagne, and after a while it just…clicked. The suits, the gadgets, the car…who else could_ afford _to be Batman?_


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does the name Richard mean anything to you?”  
> Talon cocks his head as he thinks. It does sound familiar, but just as distant as the woman and the cave and the Batman.  
> “No,” he says, and it’s mostly true.  
> “What about...Dick? Dick Grayson?”  
> Talon opens his mouth again, another denial on his tongue, but he hesitates. Pauses. Thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this next part is...really hard to nail down. I've been wrestling with Tim and Dick's characterization a lot and started writing Talon's pov to try to figure some things out and then this happened...so for now you get Talon's pov on things 😅 If you have any comments or critiques about characterization I'd love to hear it, I really want to get this right! Next chapter should be back to Tim's pov and some more explanations. 😊

Batman stares down at the unconscious Timothy Drake, then up at Talon. The eyes of his cowl show no reaction but the muscles of his jaw jump as he frowns. He opens his mouth to - ask a question? Give an order? - but is interrupted by a beep from the computers behind him.

“Oracle,” he says, without turning away from Talon. The voice that had led Talon here now echoes around the cave as a woman’s face fills the screen.

“Hey, Batman. Sorry for the short notice, but we had to improvise.” 

Batman grunts. “‘We’ being…?”

“Well, little Red there and Talon.”

Talon studies the woman’s face. He...likes it. The way her hair tumbles over her shoulders seems familiar somehow, but not in the way that the knives and the poison and the cold of the Court is familiar. This is fuzzier, more vague, like hearing a friend’s voice from a distance and not quite being able to put a name to the sound.

“‘Red?’”

“Red Fox.” The woman’s expression doesn’t change, but Talon somehow knows that she’s laughing. “Inside joke, maybe you can get him to explain it to you once he wakes up. Long story short, Red asked for my help in taking down the Court of Owls.  _ Yes,  _ B, they’re real. And they’re pissed. But it’s not my story to tell, so don’t even bother with the interrogation.”

Batman’s eyes narrow. Talon pulls Timothy Drake a little closer to his chest. He seems to accept the woman’s words, though. “What is your name?” he asks, still staring at Talon. It takes him a moment to realize that Batman is no longer speaking to the computer. 

It is a complicated question. Talon considers his answer. “I am Talon,” he finally says. Some long-buried instinct is screaming at him, pounding on the lid of its coffin. This cave, this man, the woman...it’s all familiar. It makes his heart race and his mouth smile. He doesn’t know  _ why _ , though.

Timothy Drake called the man ‘Mr. Wayne.’ That name is familiar too; he remembers hearing the grandmaster speak of Bruce Wayne, but there’s something beneath that memory as well…

“Do you have another name?”

Was his answer not satisfactory? The threat of failure weighs heavy.

“Talon is the Gray Son,” he says, unsure if it will be enough. At this answer Batman’s eyes widen and he moves a half-step closer; he stops, though, when Timothy whines and shifts in Talon’s arms. On the screen the red-headed woman frowns.

“Talon, do you still have that needle they stuck him with?”

“Yes.” He brandishes the needle as proof and hands it to Batman. “The Court of Owls has its own poison to break the mind. He was given some, but not all. Can Batman find the cure?”

Batman grunts and leads him over to a thin bed on wheels. Talon lays Timothy down and moves to stand near his head; close enough to watch, but out of the way. 

“I’ll try,” Batman says. “But we may end up having to just wait for it to leave his system naturally. Synthesizing a new antidote from scratch could take hours, maybe days.”

“I understand,” Talon says. The woman on the screen hums.

“I’ve gotta look into a couple things, but I’ll keep you guys on a minimized window. Just holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Oracle.”

“Anytime, Boss.”

Batman huffs and the screen goes black. And then it is just Talon, and Batman, and Timothy Drake, alone in a cave. 

“I need to run analysis on the syringe. If he wakes, try to keep him calm.” Batman pauses, half-turned towards the computers. The light from the monitor throws the sharp line of his nose into stark relief. “You said that you are called Grayson. Does the name Richard mean anything to you?”

Talon cocks his head as he thinks. It does sound familiar, but just as distant as the woman and the cave and the Batman.

“No,” he says, and it’s mostly true.

“What about...Dick? Dick Grayson?”

Talon opens his mouth again, another denial on his tongue, but he hesitates. Pauses. Thinks. 

Timothy Drake had used that name too, and at the time it had made his chest feel funny and his fingers tingle. It felt good, like sliding a knife into its sheath. Natural. And now, hearing Batman say that name, he thinks…

A memory rises to the surface. Were he still in the Labyrinth he would push it back down and tear it to shreds, but standing over Timothy Drake in the safety of a secret underground cave he lets it come. The woman from Timothy’s picture is laughing, laughing at the man from the picture, who has something white and powdery -  _ chalk  _ \- on his face.  _ “Dick!”  _ the man says, and he’s trying to sound stern but he’s laughing too hard.  _ “I gotcha Dad, didn’t I!”  _ a child’s voice replies.

Talon shakes his head. Batman has turned back and is staring at him.

“Dick Grayson,” Talon repeats, voice quiet. Another memory:  _ “My m-mom calls...used to call...she used to call me R-robin.” _ “Dick Grayson was...Robin.”

“Yes,” Batman breathes. His hand half-rises, pauses, then reaches up to push back the cowl. Bruce Wayne’s eyes are very blue and very kind and very, very sad. “Do you remember anything else?”

Talon stares back and wonders why it feels hard to breathe. “I do not remember,” he says. And then, a sudden surge of rebellion rising in his throat, adds, “but I know that I have forgotten.” 

A dangerous admission. A costly one. If he were still in the Labyrinth he would be punished. There is no life outside the Court, no will outside that of the Grandmaster. 

A tear runs down Bruce Wayne’s face. 

“Oh, Dickie-boy,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Talon remains silent. He does not know how to respond. His mind is too full to think.

Once again Timothy breaks the tension. One moment he is unconscious; the next, he jolts upright and points straight at Batman with a single, trembling finger. “NO!” he shouts. His mask is askew, his entire body shaking. Batman jerks backwards as if struck and when Talon tries to reach for Timothy, to restrain him, he flinches so hard that he falls off the bed. His breath is coming in short, whistling gasps. 

Batman raises a hand to his ear and barks something that sounds like a command. Talon doesn’t hear - he is too busy trying to stop Timothy from hurting himself. Every time he approaches, though, the boy whimpers and moans and only tries to move away faster. His hands begin to ooze blood as he scrapes them along the ground. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Timothy gasps.

“You are safe,” Talon tells him, voice carefully level, but the boy just shakes his head and scoots back another few feet. His hands are bleeding in earnest now. 

Talon spent a lot of time in the Labyrinth. He watched dozens of men and women scream and bleed and beg, saw them drink from the fountain and run, maddened, into the claws of death. He has  _ been  _ those claws himself. He was taught to wait, and to watch, and to strike when the moment was right, when the person was finally broken on the razor-sharp edge of terror but with just enough strength remaining to  _ run _ .

Timothy Drake was only given a portion of a full dose. Talon saw the needle and the remaining poison inside. The boy is not yet broken, not yet ripe for death; and yet, Talon’s heart is pounding as if preparing for the kill. It feels different though. He never  _ enjoyed  _ watching those others turn to madness, but neither did they affect him like this. He doesn’t understand, and that is...worrying.

He crouches down and, for the first time he can remember, tries to look non-threatening. 

“Timothy,” he whispers, so that Batman will not hear. The boy continues to cry, but he at least stops moving backwards. “You are safe. You are with Batman. Do you remember Batman?”

Timothy begins to shake his head, then stops and slowly nods. A drop of blood rolls out from under the scuffed white mask and down his neck.

“Good,” Talon says. It is hard not to sound like the Grandmaster when he says it, but he tries. 

Once the Owls released a group of people into the Labyrinth with a flock of Talons. It was a rare treat, they said, a game: which Talon would be the best hunter, which would make the most kills? He stalked two people, an old one and a young one, for many hours. Towards the end the old one held the young one close and whispered reassurances as their death crept closer and closer. He tries to remember those words now as he holds out a hand to Timothy Drake. “You will be ok. I promise. This will all be over soon.” That last one sounds more threatening than reassuring, but it made the young one in the Labyrinth stiffen her spine and begin to walk once more. It was too late for her, unfortunately, but fortunately the words seem to work on Timothy Drake as well, and it is not too late for him. “Will you come with me?”

Timothy is silent for a long moment. Just as it seems he is about to speak a new set of footsteps enters the cave. Timothy whips his head around to look and then begins to sob anew. 

“No,” he moans, “No, I said I was sorry, I didn’t want...no, no, no…!”

An old man comes into view. Talon cocks his head at him, and he raises an eyebrow in return, then heads straight for Timothy. The boy tries to move again but Talon finally darts forward and grabs his arms. He didn’t want to startle the boy before and risk greater damage, but at this point restraint is more important than calm.

Timothy struggles, of course, but a Talon’s grip is iron.

The old man doesn’t say anything about what must seem a very strange situation. He simply holds out another needle and says, “a sedative, for the young sir. Batman said it was necessary.”

Talon nods in reply and the old man, moving quickly, grabs one thrashing arm and sticks the needle in. The effect is near instantaneous: Timothy’s cries taper into soft whimpers, then into gentle breathing. His limbs sink down and become heavy with unconsciousness. In a few moments he is out, and the old man stands. 

“Now,” he says, “I believe some introductions are in order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen a lot of different portrayals of Talons but I'm trying to stick to the comics as much as I can (while still making sense lol). So Talons can talk and process normally, and they look mostly normal too. Dick is still referring to himself as 'Talon' because the Court made him forget his own name and he's used to the Talon title now. And he uses full names because again, that's all he's been exposed to in the Court.  
> There's a lot of Talon backstory and exposition that I've been trying to hammer out, and we should get to more of it in future chapters. I'm really hoping to make this all into a full 'verse (if Real Life lets me) and all that should come up then too!  
> Also, as for Tim being called 'Red' (because I cannot for the life of me figure out how to put this naturally into the story):  
> Timmy boy, being the massive nerd that he is, originally wanted to be called Red Drake because it sounded like "the fire drakes from the north" from Lord of the Rings and he's like twelve at this point and thinks it sounds hardcore. Barbara, being the sensible woman that she is, vetoed the idea, because if it ever came out no one would ever let him live it down (least of all her), and suggested Red Fox as a compromise. Because foxes are smart and sneaky and clever and kill chickens which are birds...like owls are birds...  
> Anyway. Tim agreed to Red Fox, but of course that's too long so Babs just took to calling him 'Red.' Which still sounds like a cool spy-name and lets Tim think of himself mentally as a fire drake without actually having a dumb code name.  
> (And just for the record, I wrote up that bit of exposition BEFORE this whole 'ducks are the most fearsome bird' nonsense. Just...I just need you all to know that).
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you liked it! And feel free to come hang out with me on tumblr: https://oceannocturne.tumblr.com/


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